


Laughter in the Dark

by Maraceles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraceles/pseuds/Maraceles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam thinks everything will be better once Dean gives in.  Maybe he’s right.  (And maybe he won't know what hit him.)</p><p>(originally posted to lj)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter in the Dark

“That’s it,” Sam breathes against his lips. His fingers hold Dean still, forcing Dean to accept the tongue that licks at his mouth.

It’s just another one of the million seductions that Dean has been subjected to over the years, five _fucking_ years, locked up tight into this opulent room at the top of the world, isolated from everything and everybody but his brother. And it’s worked—five years later and here he is, in his brother’s lap as if the desire between them isn’t an unnatural thing, as if Sammy isn’t a monster and Dean isn’t a man who has been chained so long that confinement feels like safety.

Dean relaxes into his brother’s grip, opening his mouth.

“Good,” Sam tells him. “Just like that.”

Dean can feel it: Something has snapped, something has finally changed. The cherished and brilliant light in Dean’s mind, the last bittersweet and fading hope for what his brother used to be, has flickered off and on so long that finally it’s died. His thoughts slow, any lingering need to struggle fades away.

Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s face, kissing him more deeply. Testing him, Dean knows.

But Dean feels no tension for once, nor any excitement. Sam’s regard is a quiet and lovely thing, peaceful and comforting, the flickering and fading light coming through church windows, the colors from stained glass gently rippling across his face. Dean only sighs, a deep exhalation, as Sam finally draws away from him.

Sam’s eyes stare into his, narrowed thoughtfully, something surprised and triumphant lurking in their depths. Dean finds that he can’t hold them, something inside him crumbling at his brother’s gaze-- he instead bows his head, reaching up to lightly cradle Sam’s face between his hands. It’s a wordless supplication, a quiet plea.

“Want you,” Dean finally says, hearing the yearning in his own voice, and it’s a prayer five years in the making.

Sam has been waiting for Dean to ask—doesn’t want a whore, he says. Sometimes Dean thinks he understands: Sam _changing_ so quickly, a single spell to destroy his soul—it had fractured them both, all at once, tied together as they were. Sam’s destruction was devastating and obvious, but Dean’s slow collapse has been more subtle--a fall of ivy bereft of a wall, a foundation unmoored from its footings. It has taken time for Sam to build Dean up beside him, fitting them back together, welding back the missing parts that used to keep them whole.

“Fuck,” Sam says, and his breathing is quickening, becoming labored. His body shivers as he twists his fingers in Dean’s hair. “ _Finally_.”

Dean closes his hand around Sam’s heavy dick, and he feels like he has come home.

::::

It’s another week before Dean thinks again, thinks beyond his brother’s long body as it covers his own, thinks beyond Sam entering him deeply, fucking him slowly. A while before his world is more than surrender, more than opening his arms and his legs and his _self_. It’s too easy to lose himself—Sam’s so fucking _needy_.

Sam is rocking into him slowly, carefully, coming down from orgasm when Dean finally blinks. “Huh,” he says, stretching languidly up against Sam’s body, pushing Sam deeper inside him. “You know—I think I want to go outside.”

Sam chuckles against his lips; it’s an old argument. He’s shaking his head, but then, Dean is _different_ now. He wraps his legs more tightly around his brother, takes his mouth back with his own, and he fucks Sam’s mouth slowly with his tongue. Before, Sam would have done that, would have laid him out and left him panting, used his own desire as a weapon against him. Before, Dean would have let the self-loathing conquer him, but now, he’s past that. He realizes: He’s going to fuck his monster of brother quite happily.

When Dean finally comes under his brother’s hands, he can tell that Sam thinks the fight is over. But Dean only gets up, stretching to feel the _ohsogood_ soreness that Sam has imprinted on his body. He walks over to the corridor outside his rooms--it’s a single line from the elevator to the penthouse suite they live in. No other doors along the hallway, so Dean feels perfectly reasonable in walking out naked. He plants his ass by the warded elevator doors.

Sam follows him after a minute, his mouth twisted. He doesn’t look sure whether he’s amused or annoyed. “What are you doing?” he says slowly, speaking to Dean like he once did, like maybe his older brother is just a little slow.

Dean tilts his head at him, finds himself smirking a little. “Gonna go outside today.”

::::

Dean doesn’t know what’s up with him, but his actions become routine. When he wakes up, he takes a quick shower, gets dressed in the clothes his brother has provided, and then he walks to the elevator. He spends his days sitting there docilely. The demons Sam has serving them learn to bring him his food—his brother almost kills them, once, when he discovers that Dean hasn’t eaten anything.

Sam seems to think it’s a phase, something time and patience will outlast. When he returns from wherever it is he goes, he stares down at Dean, quizzical and a bit concerned, a bit amused. Dean leans against the corridor wall and drinks in the sight of him; he can feel a lazy, goofy grin cross his features, and Sam smiles at him, indulgent in return. If his brother is in a hurry, it will end there: Sam will reach out, smooth a thumb across Dean’s eyebrow, and jerk his head slightly towards their rooms. A quizzical look: _Coming with?_ Dean always shakes his head and stays by the elevator. Sam only rolls his eyes as he leaves him.

At the end of the day, and sometimes altogether on the rare unhurried afternoon, Sam comes back, looks down at him and sighs. He crosses his arms, tilts his head as he studies Dean, and for a long time, his hazel eyes are nothing but rueful. “Stubborn ass,” Sam mutters under his breath as he shakes his head.

Dean closes his eyes when Sam picks him up, as he inevitably does; Dean wraps his arms around his brother’s neck, reveling in the feel of him. He always goes with Sam willingly, no second thought or struggle, and he loses himself in Sam’s touch.

But the next day, he does it again. Wakes, goes to the elevator, and waits.

Weeks pass, and Dean doesn’t change his routine--the pressure starts, just like he knows it will. It begins slowly: Sam’s eyes are no longer quite amused, lines creasing around them, and his mouth is tighter, his jaw harder. Dean still won’t move when asked, nor when ordered; the only way he leaves the elevator is if Sam picks him up or puppet-masters him with his power. _Move_ , Dean hears him say in his head, a soft, insidious sigh, and with his brother’s voice controlling his will, he does.

But only then.

“Enough,” Sam says one day, and a burst of unseen power lifts Dean from his seat and slams him away and across, into their bedroom wall. Long-limbed strides follow and Sam is on him, his large hands rough and almost painfully tight. It is the calm before the storm; there is nothing of Sammy in that face--only the demon lord, the boy-king, stares back, a silent warning.

Dean thrills to him, suddenly and completely. Strange, inhuman eyes, black and tinged with gold; they obscure the familiar—and yet. It’s been five years, five years of torment and training and _love_ , and something in those features are just as recognizable to Dean, just as beloved.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, seeing something within them and needing to reassure, “I’m still here.”

It’s the wrong answer. Dean is spread wide against the wall, strung-up and helpless, his brother's power ripping Dean’s clothing from his body, stinging his skin as it goes. Sam’s fingers are suddenly inside of him, not opening him up but just angry and invading and _possessing_ , and Dean surrenders so fast that he can’t _breathe_. By all that’s holy, he starts fucking _panting_ for it.

Sam doesn’t make him wait. There is no time to adjust—one hand still inside of Dean, Sam yanks his own belt open with the other, pulls out his dick and spits on his hand. With a quick switch he’s pushing inside of Dean with his cock, roughly, painfully, with no time nor preparation. Long, chafing slides and Sam is fucking him too hard, too fast, and god, it fucking _hurts_. Sam makes Dean feel every inch, a reminder and a warning both.

Dean gives himself over, as completely and utterly as he possibly can.

It’s not that he is feeling particularly defiant, after all. He just wants to go outside.

The lessons get harder, the timing more frequent. Soon enough Sam has him in bed for hours at a time, roughing him up and working him over, sometimes causing him pain, and even once, actual injury. It never works. Dean can spend hours burning with agony—whipped and fucked within an inch of his life. He can suffer days worth of unfulfilled arousal—taunted and held by his brother’s mind, his brother’s power. Dean only accepts it as his due. It’s been five years, and he _yearns_ for his punishment, desires all the pain and pleasure that marks him as his brother’s favorite. Sam can be as tender and cajoling, brutal and manipulative as he’s capable of--but in the end, Dean always brings himself back to the elevator.

“ _Why_?” Sam finally asks him, his voice rough and full of betrayal. “Why are you _doing_ this?”

But Dean has no answer for him. He can only reach up, taking his brother’s bloody hand in his own, and he brings it lovingly, carefully to his mouth. Dean is much harder to hurt these days, a side-effect of whatever Sam has done to him to keep him young and immortal, and Sam’s knuckles have been scraped, red and raw and _open_. Dean licks the wounds gently, a silent apology, a quiet supplication.

There is something familiar to the taste, familiar and comforting; Dean ends up doing it often, half-closing his eyes and taking what he can from Sam’s body, sucking and licking along his brother’s skin. Sam always allows it, his breath easing and calming with every stinging touch of Dean’s mouth along his wounds, and though there is still banked fury in Sam’s eyes, the permission feels like forgiveness—at least until the next day.

At long last, things change again. Sam comes home from the battlefield one day, and with him is a little girl. She’s maybe five years old, trusting and sweet; her brown skin is flushed and happy, her smooth, silky hair tied back in pig-tails but mussed from excitement. Dean can see that Sam has turned on the charm; she looks up at him fondly, clutching his hand.

Sam stares at him, his eyes heavy and meaningful, and then he sits next to Dean by the elevator, bringing the little girl to sit between them.

”No,” Dean breathes, staring back and reading the intent in Sam’s eyes, but the little girl startles, jumps in her seat. Before Dean thinks he is reaching for her, steadying her. He opens his mouth and smiles, pretends that nothing is wrong.

Her name is Alicia, they discover as they sit together. She can count to twenty, and she knows her colors, and she likes dogs but not cats. She adores Cinderella but hates Snow White, and the hours after that are full of storytelling, Sam telling her the old harmless Disney tales that Dean remembers from _before_. Sam’s voice is low and calm, soothing in that way that only Sammy’s ever was, but Dean can’t bring himself to join in often, can’t bring himself to speak very much. His heart is in his throat the entire time. His stomach turns to rock--because though Sam’s voice is happy and charming, his eyes over the little girl’s shoulders are becoming dark, turning black and flickering with gold. They’re full of fury, demanding and vengeful, and it’s his last warning, Dean knows, it’s his brother’s final forbearance. Dean watches Sam, stricken, as the hours wear on.

The old Dean would have stopped, immediately. He would have gotten up, left the elevator, and his brother would have won. But that man is long gone, and _this_ Dean has learned his lesson well: _This is happening_ , he can hear his brother’s voice in his mind, a never-ending refrain. _You have to accept that this is what I am now--I will never hide anything from_ you.

And Sam never did.

Dean knows his brother better now: No matter what Dean wants, no matter what he _gives_ , Sam will not be held by Dean’s wishes.

Dean finally reaches out, holding the little girl in his arms. He cradles her, softly and gently, and he only closes his eyes for one moment, just one, when Sam leans forward and slits her throat.

Dean never moves from the elevator. He only stares up at his brother, covered in the spurting, steaming blood that washes over his face and down his neck, that soaks into his clothes and flows over his fingers. He stares at Sam, and everything in Dean is full of longing despite himself, full of love and fierce protectiveness. Five _years_ , and Dean can’t help but love his brother, even as he knows him--and what Dean knows includes Sam’s actions in the dark outside their rooms, how he calms his endless, pitiless fury. He knows just how much blood is on Sam’s hands, and so Dean does not get up.

Dean doesn’t want to speak, but the words burst from his throat. “You would’a done it anyway.”

Sam’s mouth becomes pinched, but he does not deny it.

The next day, Sam finally lets Dean go outside.

::::

It is the first time that Dean has felt the wind on his face in five years.

He stands on the roof, eyes closed and mouth open, overwhelmed by the sensation. The sun beats down on him, warming his skin, and he smiles up into it, enjoying the red haze that filters through his eyelids. The breeze tickles his neck, his arms, flutters the clothing wrapped around his torso and legs, and he holds himself still, absolutely still, to better feel the movement.

Sam stands behind him, watching him silently. Dean reaches for him without opening his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmurs finally. “Sammy.”

Sam steps up behind him, wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, tucks his face into Dean’s neck. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he says quietly.

It is not an apology, and Dean knows it. He closes his fists around his brother’s forearms, taking a deep breath and then releasing it slowly, and then he makes himself open his eyes, stare down at the world. It’s easy enough—so much brilliance, so much beauty. “Yeah.”

After a moment, he draws Sam down, makes him sit on the wooden bench that lines the edge of the finished roof. The area around them is empty—Sam had cleared everyone out, still jealously hording Dean’s company—and so Dean feels no shame in coming to his knees. He unzips his brother’s pants, frees the hardness that he finds there, and when he takes Sam’s dick in his mouth, he looks up into Sam’s face. The sky is behind him, clear and blue and brilliant.

It’s glorious.

When Sam comes, sighing, Dean licks him clean gently; he presses a soft kiss to his brother’s inner thigh. Sam’s hands are on his head, and Dean reaches for one, turning it over and pressing another kiss into his brother’s palm— it’s bleeding, of course. Sam has been clenching his fists, hard, since he led Dean to the rooftop, uncomfortable and angry at granting Dean's request, and his nails have punctured his own skin. Dean doesn’t say anything, only laps the blood from Sam’s fingers.

He forgives his brother.

It doesn’t stop him.

As time passes, Dean asks for more. He asks Sam to take him downstairs, to the street, and then later, on a walk. He wants Sam to take him out, to give him some other company—and when Sam kills that company in a jealous rage, Dean only asks him for more. Sam becomes furious and desperate and seething, but whatever he wants to do to Dean, however he wants to punish him, Dean only sinks to Sam’s feet and accepts it. Dean only kisses his brother’s fingers, licking the come and blood from Sam’s angry hands, trying to reassure him, helping Sam get through it.

At long last, Dean is allowed outside by himself. He lets himself out of their rooms, takes the long trip from the penthouse to the main floor, and steps into the dimming light of dusk. The area around him is still, quiet—the war hasn’t been on this front for many, many years, and Sam has had the time to repair it, make it beautiful again—and so Dean walks through the neighborhood slowly. There are demons in that darkness, he knows, and even though he knows they will not harm him, he goes looking for them anyway.

Even though everything else has changed, Dean is still a hunter.

He finds his first demon walking along a deserted side street, all alone and thinking itself safe—and why wouldn’t it be, so deep within Sam’s empire? Dean trails it slowly, quietly, trying to get back into the rhythm of things—stop when it stops, crouch when it stills, never moving when it turns around. The movements are awkward, almost forgotten, and it’s almost an accident when Dean corners it, when Dean forces it into a devil’s trap.

The exorcism, though--that he remembers.

Dean is grinning when he returns to Sam’s chambers, his hands coated with muck and filth, his clothing ripped and torn. Pushing the demon into the trap hadn’t been easy—and it’s something he never would have done before, wouldn’t have thought possible, using physical force instead of wits. But Dean is different now, _stronger_. He can feel Sam’s power flooding through his veins.

Sam only stares at him, arching an eyebrow. “Did you just do what I _think_ you did?” he says, mildly.

“Uhh…” Dean shrugs at him, deciding not to hide it. “Yeah, probably.”

Sam snorts, turning back to his work.

It turns out that Sam doesn’t give a fuck, finds it amusing to watch his brother hunt his demons. When they come to him, complaining, whining about the fact that Sam still prevents them from hurting Dean even while he hunts them, Sam only goes cold. “Do you mean to say,” he asks them slowly, “that you can’t keep ahead of a _human_?”

They subside after that.

It is during a particularly grueling hunt, later, that Dean finds out that his brother might just be very, very wrong. Because this demon, he finds her in a roomful of children, and one of them is dark-skinned and has sleek hair. Though the kid’s face isn’t trusting, Dean can tell that it is sweet. And Dean feels rage like he hasn’t felt in years--he feels it escaping with all his pent up agony and fury. His anger for his brother and his betrayal and his lost life fills him at long last, and his body burns and his eyes smart, he can’t breath and white noise fills his ears, white light obscures his vision.

He only notices once he calms down.

The demon’s body is empty, embers burning underneath her, the last wisps of smoke curling lazily as it sizzles away--Dean hasn’t exorcised the demon, he’s destroyed it. And he did it without lifting a finger.

Dean stares at his hands.

The children run around him, escaping, screaming.

Dean goes back to his brother.

For the next month, Sam becomes happy, calm and sated; Dean doesn’t leave their chambers. Instead, he goes to Sam’s study, picks over his books, and he reads and reads, studies as he’s never done before. Sam only watches him, a smile playing over his mouth. Sam thinks him harmless, after all, only able to use demon lore in the paltry methodology that remains to humans. But Dean—he’s not. Not human. Not completely. Dean reads, and he wants to know why, and he wants to know how, and he wants to know what he should do about it.

When he breaks from his studying, Dean goes to his brother. He draws Sam away from the study, holds Sam’s hands between his own and leads them to their bed. Dean takes back some of his own in that place, and Sam lets him, smiling and completely pliant, the boy-king wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and letting Dean open him up, letting Dean inside, eyes nothing but hazel in their happiness.

Dean kisses Sam’s mouth gently, firmly, with the surety he doesn’t possess, but Sam can’t see that. Doesn’t know about the thoughts flickering through Dean’s head, doesn’t realize that his will and his control have faded to paltry things, mere tricks that Dean can now repel. Dean looks at Sam’s smiling, complacent face, and he considers his options.

Afterwards, Dean sits on his thighs, and he stares down at his brother. Sam is long and lean and beautiful, with large, capable hands, and a sweet, sweet mouth. Brilliant eyes—they’ve always been brilliant, even when dark—the expression in them as loving and trusting and _needing_ as they’ve ever been. Dean’s baby brother, whom he taught to fight, whose wounds he cleaned, whose heart he always helped to heal. The man who came from that, gentle and sweet and sure. The monster who came later, pitiless and angry and so very, very lonely.

Dean keeps his eyes open when he kisses Sam.

It takes a month. A month to learn what he needs to know. A month to figure out what he is, and what he should do about it. And though he doesn’t realize it at the time, doesn’t realize that he’s doing it and that he has made his decision, it takes a month, a good long month of never leaving Sam’s side, not for a minute, a moment, an instant, for Dean to say goodbye.

“Love you,” Dean finally kisses into Sam’s skin, trying to imprint it there. “Always.”

And then, at last, Dean leaves him.

:::::

Five months later, Sam finds him again.

Dean hears him approach, soft footfalls coming down the empty streets of the French Quarter. The fluorescent lights lining Bourbon Street are cracked and broken; some of the signs swing from their broken anchors, others litter the street below. Dean remembers New Orleans as a loud and dazzling place, full of people jostling against one another, music blaring from each open bar. He remembers the half-naked women and the men howling up at balconies. Now, Dean only hears Sam come towards him.

Dean takes a deep breath, turning from the doorway. It’s too hot outside, thick and dripping with humidity; the moisture weighs on him, makes him feel stupid and slow. He retreats and goes back into the bar, a poor attempt to hide from the heat--the air inside is thick with mold from the rotting wood, the moisture feels worse with the debris in the air. Dean ignores the feeling of suffocation anyway, decides to focus on the small comfort of the familiar--there might be some booze at the bar. He needs something in his hands to keep them occupied, needs to busy himself as Sam comes closer.

There is nothing. Dean searches the counter, once, twice as Sam’s light footfalls come closer and closer. Dean checks the wells, nothing, the shelves, nothing, the coolers beneath the counter, still nothing, and the footsteps are louder. He runs across to the other side of the bar, and still no beer, no wine, no fucking _anything_ , and what the hell is _wrong_ with these people anyway, dragging out _all_ the booze, and _Jesus, fuck,_ there is suddenly _breathing_ in the space behind him.

Dean freezes where he is, hunched over a bar counter, one hand outstretched in search while the other digs into the softened wood beneath him. He can feel that hand clenching, tightening, his nails digging deep into the surface—but his lungs are running away from him, escaping with his air, leaving only his heartbeat, pounding in his head.

“Hi, Dean.”

The voice is soft, too quiet to hear intonations. Dean closes his eyes, wondering if Sam’s words are angry, or tentative, or merely just indifferent. He finds himself grinding his teeth, releases them. “Knew you’d feel that.”

A pause, then Sam hums. “Yes.”

“Kinda hard to miss?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Another pause, one that Sammy doesn’t break this time. It takes Dean a moment, but after a quick reprimand— _what are you gonna do, hide forever?_ \--he gathers up his courage. Dragging himself back up and around, he turns to face his brother. The wood of the countertop feels good, pressing into his back. Hard and solid, but Dean knows that it won’t hold him.

Sam is standing in the doorway, backlit and a complete fucking cliché, the sun hallowing his head and hiding his features. But he steps forward, breaking the illusion, and his eyes, suddenly visible, are sharply focused on Dean. There is nothing of comfort in them, nothing of forgiveness.

Dean lets out a breath, feels a smile curl at his lip as he closes his eyes, accepting that. “Come to kill me, Sammy?”

“I really should be.”

“Didn’t expect this.” It’s not a question.

“No.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, opening his eyes again. “Me, neither.”

Dean didn’t send for Sam, of course, not in so many words. He had stayed off the grid, avoiding humans—they didn’t want him anyway, who’d want Death’s _whore_ —and he moved whenever he killed a demon. All the time using Sammy’s strength to hide, strength to bind, using Sam’s own power to keep away from him. His brother feeling it used but not tracking its source--it must have been infuriating for Sam. But this time--this time Sam couldn't have helped but find him.

“How’d I do?” Dean finally says into the silence. He’s genuinely curious—it’s not like he’s had the time to measure his own strength.

“All of Louisiana.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, startled. All of them, all the demons dead— _A whole army?_ —gone, wiped out in an instant. “Damn.”

“Someone piss you off?”

“Naw,” Dean answers him, shrugging. “Just something I thought I’d try.”

He’d figured it out in that last month before he left Sam, and it's so obvious in hindsight that he wonders why they hadn’t thought of it sooner. Power transferred by blood—by any vital fluid, really, blood and semen, sweat and tears -- and Dean had been drinking Sam in for a very long time. It had only taken a split-second's worth of Azazel's blood, even that diluted by the host's body, for Sam to gain his own abilities. Ruby's had been no better.

Sam, though--Sam’s whole body reeked of power. Sam's own bone, his own blood, and he’d been letting Dean lick it off his wounds for years. That, and other things.

Dean can’t help but laugh. “Fucking crazy STD, man,” he hears himself saying.

“Yeah,” Sam says, but his voice is slow. “And that’s the funny thing.”

Dean meets his eyes, quizzically.

“Dean,” Sam tells him, and his voice is chiding, almost amused. “Do you really think you’re the only one who’s gone down on me?”

Dean feels his eyes narrowing despite himself, a flash of ridiculous jealousy going through him. He can’t hold it back: _“Fucker_ ,” escapes from behind his tightened lips before he can stop himself. “Maybe it’s the blood thing,” he says finally, trying to regain his composure.

“Hmmm.” Sam shrugs, looking unconvinced, but his eyes on Dean have grown sharper, hungry. “I have a different theory.”

Dean growls back at him. “Let’s hear it then.”

“At one point,” Sam tells him, consideringly, still watching Dean intently, “you must have accepted me. No, more than that,” he adds, shaking his head, “you must have given yourself _over_ \--”

Dean feels his lip curl, opens his mouth to refute that--

“—and to be using my power now, you still _are_.”

\--and then slams his teeth shut with snap. It doesn’t make sense, couldn’t make sense, because Dean walked out five months ago and he didn’t return and by all that’s holy he wasn’t freakin’ going to--but his heart is racing and he’s breathing heavily, his body betraying him. Dean's not going to think about that, he’s _not_ , because it's not enough that Sammy is an evil monster, he’s a fucking _cheater_ too--and it’s ridiculous, and _wow_ , does he need to get his priorities straight, but Dean’s not going to take that, he _isn’t_.

Dean stands there, shaking as he clenches his fists. He refuses to look at his brother.

“Azazel might have bled in my mouth,” Sam finishes, “but he needed Mom’s permission to do it, and I had to give in to use it.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, the word escaping him. “ _Fuck_ , I fucking _hate_ you.”

Dean wants his brother to stay away, can’t bear to be in his presence. It doesn’t happen--Sam is walking towards him, shaking his head, and his hands come to rest on Dean’s shoulders. Sam squeezes him gently, holds him firmly, and _there’s_ all the comfort that was missing from his eyes before, _there_ is all the forgiveness that Dean had been looking for.

“No,” Dean hears Sam say, a murmur in his ear, “I don’t think you do.”

A moment, two, as it hits him, as Dean accepts that, and then he’s yanking himself furiously away, tears in his eyes—and why the _fuck_ is he always _crying_ —but they’re tears of rage, now, endless fury. “Not gonna do this, Sammy,” he says harshly, and he slams past his brother, out from between him and the bar.

“Dean—“

“No!” Dean cuts him off. “Not right here, not right now, not this fucking century!”

He stalks out of the bar, ignoring his brother’s voice behind him. It doesn’t work—Sam is on him, fast and hard, still stronger, still more powerful. Dean shoves him away, first with physical blows and then with all the power he can muster in his mind. But Sammy has always been better at that sort of thing, he’s had way more practice and _will_ to use it.

Sam finally strikes him, hard, and Dean goes down, landing heavily on the asphalt. Sam stands above him, shoulders and head bracketed by the empty, crumbling ruins. “Not going to let you do this, Dean.”

“Why?” Dean spits back at him, panting. He’s not even hurt, bastard’s being _gentle_. “You can’t want me around—“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“—not when--I’m not gonna stop, Sam, I’m _not_ , and I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, I know I’m a liability now—“

Sam bends down, quick as lightning, his hands fisting in Dean’s hair as he kneels beside him. “No,” Sam says firmly, wrenching Dean’s head up to face him, “you’re my _brother_.”

Teeth split Dean’s lips as Sam kisses him harshly, pressing their mouths together. Sam shoves his thumb into Dean’s jaw, opening him up, and then his tongue is in Dean’s mouth, fucking him deeply, rough long stabs tasting every inch inside. It’s been five months--but those months fall to nothing before the years of his brother’s conditioning. Dean finds himself relaxing, almost against his will, as Sam manhandles him down, pressing him more deeply into the ground.

Sam’s lips become gentle as he feels Dean submit beneath him. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “That’s the way.”

A long, slick slide of tongue, and Sam finally pulls away. Dean stares at him, breathing heavily, but something in him feels more centered. _Home_ , his entire body tells him, twisted and polluted as it is. Dean can’t help but close his eyes, breathe the air from his brother’s lungs. He lets the moments pass, feeling comforted, and he knows that should feel odd to him, but it doesn’t, not even in the slightest.

Sam kisses him lightly, a quick press of lips, once, twice. “It’s time to come home, Dean,” he says, his voice soft. “You’ve had your little joyride—it’s time to come back to me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Gonna destroy your army,” he says, looking up at the sky. It’s still brilliant, even after all the months that Dean has been free to look at it.

“You can try.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Dean shrugs. “Send your demons to kill me? Kill me yourself?” He feels Sam tighten above him, feels the coldness of Sam’s power ripple through him at the thought. “Yeah, didn’t think so. And then what? There I’ll be, undermining you every step of the way—and not just your armies, either. Just _think_ , Sammy, what’re your demons gonna do when you don’t let them stop me? How long do you think you’ll hold them together after that? We’re not talking one or two demons, here, not any more—I can kill you all on a large scale now--”

Sam pushes a finger in Dean’s mouth and strokes his tongue to silence him.

“I see your point,” Sam says finally, his voice dropping dangerously.

Dean doesn’t heed the warning, sucking lightly on Sam’s finger before releasing it. “Do you? Because I’m telling you right now—there’s only two ways this can end. One: You get _me_ , and just deal with the pain in the ass that’s gonna be.” Dean smiles grimly. “Or two: You fuck me up even more, and get that slave you keep saying you don’t want.”

Sam remains quiet, still and angry.

Dean turns his head, brushing his lips over his brother’s cheek. He keeps his voice soft. “Can’t have it both ways.”

Sam’s not going to go for it, he knows. Too much of a stubborn bastard, too certain that he’s right and that Dean can keep bending and bending without shaking apart. Dean wonders, suddenly, about the next five years, and the five years beyond that; he wonders how long he can hold himself together. Wonders if Sam will even know to mourn him when he's gone.

“You know,” Sam says finally, his voice tight. “You’re a real idiot.”

Dean looks at him, startled out of his thoughts. “What?”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

Dean stares back at him. “Fuck you— _you’re_ the idiot.” It's instinct, even now he can't help himself.

Sam only shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, Dean,” he begins, but he stops whatever he is about to say. He shoves himself down into Dean’s body, thrusting their hips together. “See?” Sam says instead, biting hard on Dean's neck. “Want this?”

“Yes,” Dean hisses, submitting instantly.

Sam grabs his hip, shoving into him. “ _Mine_?”

“ _God_ , yeah.”

“Let me fuck you right here?”

Dean spreads himself open, panting, arching up into Sam’s body.

Sam tongues his neck, slowly, wetly, laping the humidity from Dean’s skin. He runs a hand over Dean’s body, down across his chest and over his stomach, finally palming him roughly through his worn jeans. “’M gonna fuck you so hard, every time you defy me. Every time you open that pretty little mouth.”

“Sammy—“

“And you’re goin’ to open right up for me, aren’t you,” Sam breathes, and reaches up again, shoving two fingers past Dean’s lips, “gonna take it like the whore you are?”

Dean sucks on them, closing his eyes.

Sam laughs above him, a short and ugly thing. He withdraws his fingers. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice full of bitterness.

Dean opens his eyes again, staring into Sam’s face. He doesn't understand his brother's actions, nor his words, though he can feel that Sam has come to some sort of decision. Nor does Sam's face hold any answers--but the expression Dean finds there has him reaching out instinctively, his chest aching. “Dude,” he tries to say, “you know I—“

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says harshly.

“I do, you know.”

Sam curls above him, his arms tightening into steel bands. “Then _why_ ,” he asks, his voice quiet, so quiet, “did you _leave_ me?”

Dean can’t answer that. It’s too complicated, too _personal_ , and he thinks it’s something that this Sam couldn’t understand. “I won’t,” he says finally, and he's not sure if it is a lie. It feels like truth, feels like happiness as he threads his fingers through Sam’s hair. Dean frowns, tugging the strands hard.

Sam remains still, breathing harshly into Dean’s neck.

“Five _months_ , Dean."

“Yeah,” Dean tells him, feeling it twist inside him. “I know.”

Sam releases him slowly, drawing away just enough to look at Dean’s face. “I don’t know that I can do that again,” he says, his voice miserable. “God, Dean, I want to throw you into our room right _now_ , not let you up for air, never let you out _again_. I don’t even know if I _can_.”

Dean doesn’t think he can go back to that, feels a chill run through him at the thought. Little better than a slave, no matter what Sam was thinking, just a toy with no agency, no _purpose_. “You’ll just break me, if you do,” he says quietly, looking away. "You know that, right? That something you can live with?”

Sam laughs again, bitterly, and Dean finds himself becoming still. He knows Sam's answer after all. And it’s fucked up--fucked up that even now Dean can’t help but comfort his brother, fucked-up that he still wants to fulfill Sam’s desire, when that desire is only to keep Dean locked in a cage. There is nothing right in needing to soothe away Sam’s sense of loss at being unable to do so.

“You’ll see,” Dean says finally, feeling something break in his chest. It hurts, the sudden freedom. “This—we’re gonna be fine.”

Dean can see it now, his vision stretching into the future. Dean’s trickster to Sam’s pantheon, the two of them together, set above and set apart. Sam a dark god and Dean a bright one, the two halves of a whole, holding humanity between them--the war never ending, only fading, until Sam and Dean together become the whispered legends held in some father’s journal, passed down from generation to generation, nothing more than children’s tales and hunter’s quests.

Dean reaches up, holds his brother tightly, hope catching and stilling his breath. Sam is blinking rapidly down at him, clearing his vision. Their shared power—maybe Sam can see it, too, see the future that is open to them, should they decide to take it.

Dean gets up without a word, pushing his brother off him. Sam gets up quietly, not fighting for once, reaching up obediently to take the hand Dean offers him.

“You know,” Sam says finally, with a sideways glance. “I can _totally_ take you.”

Dean closes his eyes, fighting the smile that wants to break across his mouth.

“Bitch,” he says. “Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, to a certain extent, as a response to [](http://leonidaslion.livejournal.com/profile)[**leonidaslion**](http://leonidaslion.livejournal.com/)'s [Suite!Verse](http://community.livejournal.com/leonidasden/28473.html).


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